


Love Letters or Suicide Notes

by pots_the_giraffe



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kinda, M/M, Pete Wentz-centric, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 16:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30108783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pots_the_giraffe/pseuds/pots_the_giraffe
Summary: Pete Wentz was a complicated person to understand. He barely understood himself sometimes. Patrick seemed to understand though.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Kudos: 5





	Love Letters or Suicide Notes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if I like this or not.

_Don’t freak out._

Pete really didn’t like it when Patrick worried about him. He felt like an unavoidable problem every time Patrick went out of his way to do anything for him. He could tell even when Patrick wasn’t doing anything that he still wanted to wrap him up in a blanket and lock him away. The intention, while pure, was quite the opposite of what Pete wanted. He could see the white walls closing in on him even though it was all in his head. In his head, locked away behind layers of taunting and distraught; that’s all everything always amounted to.

_We both know this has been coming for a long time._

It was always a waiting game, a countdown he knew was there but couldn’t keep track of, a timer always seconds, minutes, days away from going off. It left him unsure of everything he was even on the best of days. The worst of days were a whole other matter, he couldn’t trust himself to do anything those days. The last grains of sand would drop down into the other side of the hourglass any moment and he didn’t want anyone to be there when they did. Not his mom, or his dad, or even his Patrick. He didn’t know how he’d behave when the seconds ran out, but if it was anything like him on the days he simply thought it was going to, then Pete was an impulsive time bomb just waiting for the signal. Some days he could feel it down to his bones, every thought, every movement meant another second lost, so he’d lay in bed, unmoving, to try and make the time last longer. But it was only a matter of time, and Patrick knew it too.

_I've been staying awake at night wondering if i should tell you._

Patrick knew just about everything about him, the things he didn’t know about himself, the things he didn’t want him to know. Except one thing, one thing he’d tried to keep hidden for the longest time, but even then, Patrick still probably knew it, whether it was because he was far more intelligent than Pete or simply because he was a terrible actor. It was probably both. 

Pete knew it showed in his every movement, obvious even in the way his eyes lingered a little too long on Patrick. It was woven into every moment, every other thought about Patrick, every tenth breath breathed for Patrick, every fifth smile because of Patrick. Pete’s world revolved around Patrick, in a different way Patrick’s revolved around him.

Patrick knowing was a different matter than Patrick believing. The only way he would know was for Pete to tell him. Telling him meant certainty. Meant a finality he wasn’t ready for.

_I bought the kind of crackers you can eat. They are in the hall cupboard._

Pete’s house was slowly coming to be more Patrick’s than his. There were more pictures of Patrick on the walls than of Pete or his own family, more of Patrick’s clothes tossed on the floor and strewn around than of Pete’s, more of Patrick’s favorite movies, more of Patrick’s favorite foods, more of Patrick. The entire house screamed Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. And maybe, buried underneath all of the Patrick, was Pete. Pictures of Pete and Patrick, Pete’s clothes underneath Patrick’s, his movies behind Patrick’s, his favorite foods stacked under Patrick’s.

Maybe it was a little unbalanced, his priorities getting pushed behind Patrick, but if it took him a little longer to get to his kitkats then so be it. He liked being surrounded by Patrick even if Patrick wasn’t there, he liked it a little too much sometimes. It’s his house, but it had little pieces of Patrick in it too.

_Now that we have watched all the episodes of True Blood, I do not know what else to do next._

Pete’s Patrick time had consisted of binge-watching various TV shows with him. Maybe the countdown had been until they finished the show because now Pete felt as though there was nothing left for him to do. Him and Patrick had watched every show they wanted to watch together so what would they do now? What was Pete supposed to use this newfound free time for?

He probably placed too high of value on his time with Patrick. His Patrick time shouldn’t be the one thing keeping him happy, sane, satisfied. It certainly shouldn’t be the one thing he looks forward to.

_I always imagined this would happen without warning, like suddenly on an ocean cliff side but this is the kind of thing where waiting for the time to be right would just mean waiting forever._

He was almost willing to go forever without ever telling Patrick the way he felt. The way he felt about him, or the way he felt about the world. Everything seemed dreary and boring sometimes, or too colorful and bright for him to handle other times. Patrick made it easier to deal with, he was a golden spotlight in the fog that would maybe give him some of the leftover cheeriness. Sometimes he was a grey cloud in the sea of too much, something for him to sink into when he couldn’t handle everything else.

Patrick didn’t know either of these. Pete was wellaware Patrick knew he needed him, but Patrick didn’t know why, didn’t know how. He knew Pete clung to him when he needed more reassurance that he was alive, or pushed him away when he wanted to pretend he wasn’t. He didn’t know that he revives Pete’s heart every time he laughs, that every time he smiles it makes Pete’s body work harder to keep his blood flowing. Or maybe he did know, Pete wasn’t very good at hiding it. 

_I've just been too afraid for too long._

Pete wasn’t the type to get scared by many things, he’s more than willing to always accept a dare, but if there was one thing he was afraid of; it was losing Patrick.

That’s why he told him everything, from what he ate today to his thoughts on doorways, because if Patrick didn’t have to worry about him constantly then he’d stay with him longer. That’s why Pete didn’t tell him he was practically in love with him, Patrick wouldn’t stop being friends with him but it would be different. From guarded looks, uncomfortable smiles, and careful distances it would be different, and Pete didn’t like different, or change, or heartbreak. So he lived in consistency, basked in the sameness. If he never did anything different, nothing different could happen.

_I came home on Tuesday and found all of the chairs that I own stacked in a tower in the center of my kitchen. I don't know how long they had been like that but it can only be me that did it. It's the kind of thing a ghost might do to prove to the living that he is still there. I am haunting my own apartment._

Pete does very weird things sometimes to remember that he actually affects the world around him. He pokes his friends, to remind himself he’s still solid. He pushes thumb tacks into the walls to say that yes, he’s still living. He stacks chairs to show others that what he does matters. He’s a little too loud to remind others he still exists, takes pride in the glances people give him because he’s not invisible. 

_My grandmother was still alive when I was 5 years old and she asked me to check and see if the iron was hot enough yet so I pressed my hand against it and it was red and screaming for hours. 25 years later, she would still sometimes apologize in the middle of conversations, "I feel so bad about making you touch the iron" she'd say, as though it had just happened. I cannot imagine how we forgive ourselves for all the things we didn't say until it was too late. But how else do you tell if something is hot but to touch it?_

Pete sometimes forgets to think his actions through. It’s not always a good thing, sometimes he gets bruised and damaged but he likes it. He gets a story to tell from it. He’s always the one making dumb suggestions, ideas that lead to nothing but trouble, ideas that lead to injuries. Patrick goes along with these horrible ideas even though he usually thinks things through. Pete gets upset only when Patrick gets injured taking part in these bad ideas, _his_ bad ideas. He apologies as if he gave Patrick the bruises, the scraped knees, as if Patrick wasn't laughing as he fell. He takes responsibility at the worst of times, for the things he’s the least responsible for.

Patrick usually waves off his apologies so maybe that’s why he keeps apologizing, hoping it’ll stick. 

_I keep imagining my furniture in your apartment._

Pete likes Patrick’s house far more than he likes his own. Patrick’s house was lively, bursting at the seams with joy, the house embodies Patrick, it’s what Pete only wishes his house was like. He likes the way his clothes lay on the floor next to Patrick’s, the way his favorite type of bread is always there next to Patrick’s.

He wants more though, because he’s greedy and selfish. He wants his pillow cases to be mismatched with Patrick’s, their socks to be mixed up together. He wants both sets of their chairs to be seated around the table, his couch cushions on Patrick’s couch. He wants, and he wants, and he wants. He can only hope that maybe one day he’ll wake up wrapped in Patrick’s comforter on top of his own sheets.

_I wonder how many likes this will get on Facebook._

They made money off his sadness, his desperation turned into profit, his tears turned into gold. His love-sickness seemed to be just as popular, his longing worth thousands, one broken heart made out of diamonds. No matter what he did, his audience would like it. Would praise his writer’s soul, would act as if they knew him better than he knew himself, would pretend to know the meaning behind his words.

_My dad always used to tell the same joke but I can't remember the punchline._

Patrick loved to tell him jokes, ones too clever for the punchline to be guessed, wordplay it’d take a few seconds to understand. Patrick would smile his charming as ever smile after, even if the joke was dumb or if he stuttered through the punchline. Pete would store each and every joke away, just to keep hold of each of Patrick’s smiles after.

_I was 8 years old and it took 3 weeks (3 8 yr old weeks, imagine) to gather everything that I would need to be Batman. Rope, boomerang, a Mardi Gras mask with the beads cut off. I couldn't find a cave near my house, so I buried them all in a bundle under the ivy. For years after, I tried to find that spot again. The ivy grew too fast. I searched in so many spots. It seemed impossible that I had missed one. But I never found it. How can something be there, and then not be there? How do we forgive ourselves for all the things we did not become?_

Pete sometimes thinks about what his younger self would think of him now. On his worst days he believes his younger self would hate what he’s become, but on any other day, he’s sure his younger self would be proud. He’s a well-known musician in an even more well-known band, he has amazing friends, an amazing Patrick, and there’s not much else he could ask for. When he’s feeling a little down, he thinks about that, how he’s actually living his childhood dream.

_I never had the courage to buy bright green sheets. I wanted them, but thought they were too brash, even with no one but me to see them. I bought a set yesterday and put them on the bed. I knew that you would like them._

Pete’s been spending more and more time at Patrick’s house, slowly moving his stuff in, the same way Patrick had done to him. His toothbrush sat on the sink next to Patrick’s, their hampers were neighbors, and they usually fell asleep next to each other on Patrick's bed.

Patrick’s sheets were a dark green, to match his light green comforter, his pillow cases were black, obviously from an old bed set. The neon orange sheets Pete bought would probably look atrocious but Patrick would love them and that made Pete love them even more.

_I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> All italics are taken from the poem "14 Lines From Love Letters or Suicide Notes" by Doc Luben and you can watch a video of it [ here](https://youtu.be/Iy4cEW15SdE)
> 
> You can find me on [ tumblr](http://axebodyspray.tumblr.com)


End file.
